


Zweisamkeit

by AuxCorbeaux



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: A Small Amount Of Time Travel, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Major Illness, More Sad Alfons, Sad Edward
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 17:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuxCorbeaux/pseuds/AuxCorbeaux
Summary: His mother hadn’t had the same illness as him, but she’d fallen ill all the same, and many of his evenings as a ten-year-old boy had been spent by her bedside, holding her hand and reading through his school books. It had been on one of those evenings that she’d suddenly seized his face in her hands and whispered against his forehead,“Do not reject the good things God gives you.”So, Alfons took the internship with Dr. Oberth, and moved to Munich, and accepted the sponsorship when Mr. Hess offered it, but he doesn't think the golden boy falling from a mysterious portal is what his mother had in mind.





	Zweisamkeit

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, god have mercy on all of us, I haven't published a fanfiction in five years, and haven't _written_ a Fullmetal Alchemist fanfiction since 2012. So, this is going to be an Experience for all of us, okay? I know where I want this story to go, but I'm not sure what the updates are going to be like, so. Warning, I guess. It should be noted that I had to do a lot of research on rocketry and look into a lot of different WW1 and WW2 German aircraft, and I just want you all to know: rocket powered airplanes were not created until ~1939. This is why we don't trust anime movies for historical accuracy. It's also why you should all ignore historical accuracy for this fic as well, because I'm doing my best, but some minor things ARE going to get fucked with.
> 
> (If you happen to be a big ol' stan for rocket science and German culture/cities though, I would love to talk to you and pick your brain. Random trivia, man, it's great.)

Alfons kept to a few strict rules in his life.

He’d grown up in a smaller city than Munich--though Alfons didn’t know many people who could call Rosenheim small. It was one of the biggest cities in Bavaria, it wasn’t exactly rural. Still, where Rosenheim had a more gentle beauty to it, and a more community feel, Munich was like a roaring fire of people buzzing about--in disarray, no less, with the inflation and growing unrest. So, since moving here, he’d kept himself in check with his first rule--don’t think about politics.

It wasn’t the smartest move, and he could acknowledge that--all the evidence suggested that ignoring something did not make it go away. But his life was already going to be too short, anyway. He didn’t want his last few years on Earth to be filled with fear and foreboding.

His second rule was less of a rule and more of a reassurance: everything could be explained with science. Even the things that could not, he’d think to himself, would be, eventually. The scientific community was constantly growing, and the things that they didn’t know fifty years ago were common knowledge now. Everything would come to a head eventually, if only you were patient.

His third and final rule was something he’d learned from his mother. She hadn’t had the same illness as him, but she’d fallen ill all the same, and many of his evenings as a ten-year-old boy had been spent by her bedside, holding her hand and reading through his school books. It had been on one of those evenings that she’d suddenly seized his face in her hands and whispered against his forehead, _“Do not reject the good things God gives you.”_

So, when he is offered a job to front the construction and design of several rockets--at age seventeen, no less--he does not and _cannot_ say no. Not when it’s the greatest opportunity he has ever been given, and not when days of breathing in nothing but fumes has led to the thick taste of blood on his tongue. He doesn’t have long, and he can’t wait for some other group to see him as the prodigy he is. He might not be nearly as religious as he used to be--or at all, really--but he will cling to every blessing God throws his way until his heart stops beating and the only thing he’s good for is feeding grassroots.

...All of this to say, he did not expect to be inspecting the wings on one of his smaller rockets--functionally more of a plane than anything, meant to launch through layers of atmosphere but certainly not meant to carry a _person_ safely through with it--and hear the chilling scream of something down below. Covered in oil, without any of his fellow scientists closeby, he rushed over to the edge of the platform to see. He looked over the edge and squinted and could see something moving--wiggling--but he didn’t know what it could be. And then the thing opened its jaws and clamped down on a man with golden hair and Alfons couldn’t fight his own terror.

For a moment, he didn’t move. He continued to stare and racked his brain for an explanation. _It’s an animatronic, the ones developed for film. It’s several men in a costume, squirting fake blood out onto the floor_ \--that _damn_ floor, Alfons always figured it was just a weird decal, but why did it remind him so much of a pentagram now?

The man screamed in pain, more blood blanketed the floor, and Alfons scrambled away as the circle began to glow.

Above him, a portal opened and mirrored the circle below it.

“This is a dream,” he whispered to himself, lying on his back arms and feeling oh-so-vulnerable. “This is a dream, a very strange dream.”

Someone down below laughed--Eckhart?--and Dolcetto came from behind to lift him to his feet. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” his coworker asked, and Alfons nodded until he was dizzy. Together they scrambled farther back until they were beneath the floor above them, only able to see the faintest glow of golden light.

Suddenly, Eckhart’s laughter was cut off by a scream. The golden light vanished as quickly as it appeared, and someone crashed onto the spot where Alfons had been standing before with a sickening thud and the now familiar splatter of blood.

“Oh god,” he heard Dolcetto say, and before Alfons could stop himself he found himself rushing forward, swiping a cleaner looking rag from his work station and dropping to his knees in front of the man.

He had golden hair like the man from before--the same person?--but it was soaked in blood because he was missing his right arm and left leg, and _dear God_ , he wouldn't stop bleeding.

“Dolcetto!” he called, probably sounding as panicked as he felt. He pressed the rag against the stump of the man’s--no, _boy's_ , he was too small to be an adult--shoulder and was horribly relieved when the boy cried out in response. “Dolcetto!” he repeated, and the other man finally showed up with more clean rags. “Against his leg, quickly,” Alfons ordered, and the older man did so without his usual complaints.

“We need a doctor,” Dolcetto said, and stole a glance up above--the golden portal was gone, and they couldn’t hear Eckhart anymore. “Shit, _shit_ \--we need to move him, we need to get downstairs. Wasn’t Roa training to be a doctor for a year or two?”

“Good enough,” Alfons said, and got on the opposite side of the boy to lift him up like a bloody bride, slinging the boy’s left arm around his neck and letting Dolcetto crown beside him, still applying pressure to the leg wound while Alfons’ right hand kept the rag pressed against the boy’s right shoulder. The boy was painfully lightweight, and Alfons tried to reassure himself that it’s because he was so tiny, and not because he was missing two limbs.

Together, they rushed down two flights of stairs to the ground floor. Not too far away, Alfons could see the pentagram from before--now perfectly clean, without a single hint of the monster and blood that Alfons was positive he saw only moments before.

“You two!” A voice called, and they whipped their heads around to see Mr. Hess running towards them, “That boy, hand him over!” There were several armed men behind him, and yet Alfons couldn’t help but tighten his grip.

“He’s seriously injured!” Dolcetto said, “He needs a doctor immediately, we were going to bring him to--”

“I’ll take care of it,” Hess interrupted and gestured one of his men forward to take the boy from Alfons. “This is not something you need to concern yourselves with.”

The man who came forward was bigger and stronger than Alfons will ever be and had a pistol on his hip, but still, Alfons clung to the small body like a lifeline. “You have to keep pressure,” Alfons insisted, “Don’t let him bleed out--” The man grabbed the boy more roughly than necessary, and Alfons could almost feel the boy’s pain when he cried out. The man didn’t hold him with any sort of care--his right shoulder was now pressed against the guard’s chest, which was good for keeping pressure, but his left thigh dangled in his grip and blood puddled below him dangerously. Alfons started to rush over--to correct the man’s grip or take the boy back, he isn’t sure, but Dolcetto grabbed him by the upper arm and yanked him away.

They stayed standing there until the soldier was gone and Mr. Hess had started to walk away. “Return home for the day, but come early tomorrow,” he ordered, “We will be discussing future projects.”

\--

Early the next morning, the four of them--Dolcetto, Roa, Bido, and himself--were crammed into their office cradling cups of coffee. Alfons was the only one sitting down at the draft table, reluctant to push himself too far physically after the strain of the day before, while Dolcetto paced like a madman only a few feet away.

“It was crazy,” the man muttered, sounding crazed. “I-it was big, giant, and glowing--it was so bright, I thought I would go blind if I looked at it for too long.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Bido said, leaning back against the table and wincing at the taste of his coffee. He wrinkled his nose and offered Alfons a smile when he caught him looking.

“Well, of _course_  you didn’t!” Dolcetto cried, “You were busy in Warehouse B!”

“Do you think,” Alfons began, setting his own cup down onto the table and fiddling with his pencil. “Do you think they’ll tell us what happened to that boy?”

“Boy?” Dolcetto laughed, “He didn’t look that much older than you, Alfons.” He frowned. “And I doubt it. Why would they? It seems like it’s on a need-to-know basis…where did he even come from?”

Roa glanced over from where he was looking through different blueprints--he’d chugged the coffee like it was a lifeline once it had been handed to him, and Alfons didn’t think he would ever fail to be impressed by it. “A boy?” he asked. “What boy?”

“Some kid fell from the golden light!” Dolcetto nearly shouted. “One hundred feet from that damn light, and he was still alive when we got to him--well, barely--”

They were interrupted by a firm cough at the door--Mr. Hess.

“I see you’ve informed the others of what has happened,” Hess commented, looking a little annoyed. Dolcetto looked appropriately sheepish and backed up enough to take the seat to Alfons’ right. Hess cleared his throat again, and his usual armed entourage closed the door behind him. “I’m to inform you that the events of yesterday are not to be spoken of beyond this factory and that there will be a change in plans.”

He took a folder from one of his men and handed it to the closest person--Roa--before continuing. “All work on the warship will be suspended until further notice, but work on _Doppeldeckers_ will continue. Details are included in there,” he nodded towards the folder, “And any questions should be addressed exclusively to me. You will not bother Miss Eckhart with any questions, do you understand? Should anyone else inquire about your current work, you are to defer them to me, no exceptions.”

Roa flipped through the folder for a moment, but must not have seen anything out of the ordinary, for he just nodded. Beside Alfons, Dolcetto quaked with nerves. “Sir,” he began, sharing a look with Alfons, “We were wondering if you could tell us what happened to that boy from before..?”

Hess stared at them for a moment with a neutral look on his face, before offering a sad smile. “I’m afraid he succumbed to his injuries. Do not concern yourself with him--he is in God’s hands now.”

Alfons felt his heart drop into his stomach. He wasn’t sure why--it wasn’t like he knew the kid or anything. But something about having been with him for that time, and having had the chance of saving him, just for them to have failed anyway…

“Oh,” Dolcetto said, looking equally as distraught. “Do we know where he--”

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to answer any more questions,” Hess interrupted, already turning to leave. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

When the door closed again, the four men remained silent for a moment before Roa sighed and tossed the folder onto the table. “Not much has changed,” he said, gesturing to the plans they’d been given. “We won’t be going near the ship unless it’s for maintenance, and we’ve been commissioned for a few more D-types. Other than that, everything is the same.”

Alfons reached over for a few of the pages and flicked through them. Each page was a request form for a different commissioned plane, and the rockets equipped to them. Alfons never tended to go near the planes unless it was to perform maintenance or make sure they’d be compatible with the rockets he helped design, but he could identify them easily enough. The one he’d been working on the previous day had been a single seater, not meant for combat--it was powered by rockets, but required assistance by jets to get moving anywhere. Most of the requests were for D-types--single-seater planes, but armed to the teeth--but there were usually non-fighter planes commissioned, and that was what Alfons tended to spend most of his time working on.

After a moment, he glanced up and saw the others looking over his shoulder at the pages as well, and startled a bit in surprise. “I suppose I was in denial before,” Alfons began, “But we really are working for the military, aren’t we?”

“Or some very rich warmongers,” Bido suggested. “I’m not too surprised. Everyone’s been itching for another war, can’t you tell?”

Dolcetto huffed. “Do you really think so?” he said, “Not to be a pessimist, but I doubt we’d survive another one.”

Boa took the papers and fixed them back up nicely into the folder, before pulling out blueprints. “Best not to think about it,” he said, cajoling the others into their own seats. “We don’t build the planes, we build the rockets. Let the other guys worry about morals, I need to pay my bills.”

\---

For a few months afterward, life was horribly mundane for Alfons.

He’d wake up, go to the factory and work on his rockets, and then come home either to whatever home-cooked goodness Gracia had to offer him or to a meager can of beans and stale bread. He would go out sometimes to the beer hall when Dolcetto or Roa invited him, but spent most of his time outside of work taking in as much fresh air as possible--a difficult task in a city like Munich. Rosenheim hadn’t been nearly as bad, probably for the lack of factories in the area polluting the skies, but it was too late to regret leaving now. Each moment felt like a blessing and a curse at once--he felt as though he was in purgatory, constantly working to try and accomplish something great. Just in case, he often made sure to write down his methods and findings, in the hope that should his illness get the best of him, perhaps someone would take his notes and share them with the world.

_Even this hardship,_ he’d think to himself at night, _is a blessing from God._

After a few months had passed and the New Year had come and gone, and spring had come back around, his breathing had eased just enough that he found he could handle long hours in the factory. He’d long-since sequestered himself a cot in their office--a lumpy, back-breaking thing that left his neck sore for days after using it--and he used it whenever he got the chance.

One evening, he’d decided that he needed just a few more hours to fix the wiring on a rocket meant to be equipped to another one of those D-type planes, and had waved off the concerns of his crew. “I’ll sleep on the cot, it’s fine,” he insisted, and Dolcetto had immediately groaned.

“Nothing about that cot is fine!” he yelled, “You’re going to work yourself to death one of these days and--”

“Dolcetto,” Roa said, cutting him off with a stern look before offering Alfons a smile. “Don’t overwork yourself. We worry about you, kid.”

Alfons had smiled at them as they left but had quickly fallen back into the routine work of twisting wires and avoiding fumes as much as possible. By the time he felt he’d done enough work to call it a day, it was nearing midnight and he stumbled a bit on his trek back to the office.

The office wasn’t in Warehouse A and was instead a bit of a walk away in Warehouse B, where most of the planning and smaller projects were worked on. Warehouse B wasn’t any smaller than Warehouse A, though, and was filled to the brim with stockpiled resources--different chemicals, steel, welding supplies. There was an order to the madness--most of the more dangerous items were kept in the basement, while more frequently required items like the metals and fabrics used in the creation of the planes were kept on the first few floors. For that reason, Warehouse B was also more heavily guarded than Warehouse A--it had been a bit surprising to Alfons at first, that more value would be put into the parts to create engines and aircraft, while the actual aircraft themselves wouldn’t be nearly as protected. But, he supposed, it wasn’t as easy to steal a plane as it was to steal beams of steel.

He walked up to the warehouse entrance and quickly flashed his ID card to the guards there, who barely spared him a glance. He was a familiar sight at this point, so it wasn’t so surprising. He was walking through towards the staircase and then up to the second flight of stairs where his crew’s office was when he heard it--the sound of paper hitting the floor.

Immediately, Alfons froze, looking around in worry. He looked up and down the hallway, but couldn’t see anyone. The same sound happened again, this time a little bit louder, and with a bit of apprehension, Alfons realized it was coming from his office.

It’s probably just one of the others, he reassured himself, they must have forgotten something or stayed behind like me. But, of course, he would have seen them at some point if that were the case--they had the same workstation, for the most part, except for Roa. But Roa wouldn’t be in the office either, not with a family at home to take care of…

The sound came again, and Alfons took a deep breath and resigned himself. If it was his crew, it wasn’t a big deal. If it was a thug--well, what were they going to do? Kill him? The idea made him want to laugh. He strode forward and opened the door to the office, peeking ahead inside.

He froze.

Someone with long golden hair was rifling through the file cabinet, flipping through papers like a mad-man before letting them drop the floor. His instinct was to think it was a woman--not many men tended to keep their hair long, did they?--but closer inspection proved that was not the case. The figure was familiar, and Alfons remembered seeing him shirtless and covered with blood in his own arms.

The boy from before.

He was still missing his right arm, but he had a simple prosthetic--was that a chair leg?--tied to his thigh by a bit of fabric and was balancing precariously on it and his good leg. He wasn’t shirtless anymore and was instead wearing a simple shirt and bed shorts in the same off-white color, with his hair loose and messy instead of tied back as it had been before.

Words escaped Alfons before he could stop himself. “It’s you,” he said, and the boy whirled around, startling golden eyes narrowing in on him.

A face that was previously hard and on-edge melted into something soft and sad.

“Alphonse?”


End file.
